


thawing: Absence and Mortality

by qanterqueen



Series: Thawing [4]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Death, Graphic Description, based on stuff written in chapter 23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 11:38:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13716909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qanterqueen/pseuds/qanterqueen
Summary: A jail is cold– so cold– as the beads of sweat that drip down a man’s neck; cold as the cement under a mother’s fingers, cold as the keys that swing at the guard’s side, cold as the bars Kravitz raps upon with a fake and thin devilish grin.A short story set pre-Thawing.





	thawing: Absence and Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> No matter what shape a jail is in– no matter how old it may be, no matter if the bars were raised with copper or gold, no matter if one person is waiting or if twenty people are doomed– it omits a feeling that Kravitz used to try to grasp at, hungrily and unconsciously yearning for anything (for it is easier to notice darkness than light). It is the feeling of absence.

Thirteen Hail Mary’s sliding past cracked, ashen lips.

Thin words that brush against a dry throat and escape as a whisper. The words evaporate in the cold air. They reach no one’s ears. The pleas die as soon as they are uttered. But still they are uttered relentlessly--

Quickly, at first. _So maybe you’ll have a fucking chance_.

They slow by the second hour. 

The hope that powered them and pushed the air dwindles to an uncertain, feeble thread. It’s clear to observe that in here there is no recipient. 

There are no other prisoners in their right minds. Every few cells there lays a body but they are no longer human-- they are abstract in their existence. Eyes void of color stare, in a daze, from behind half-closed lids. Mouths with split, bleeding lips hang open, blue tongues lolling from side to side. Flies nestle and lay their eggs in the spaces between gaped, rotting teeth. Chests rise and fall slowly and with shudders. It is anyone’s guess whether they are alive or dead.

There are no guards. From a door, three flights of stairs from the closest cell, laughing can be heard. Underneath the wooden cracks dim light streaks in, though it cannot reach any of the prisoners. Nothing can reach them-- not the smells of the buffet in the dining hall, not the jeers and conversations of the royalty, not the sight of a rising night, void of any moon.

There are no Gods. No clerics, no religious clergy, to pray for anyone’s soul. The air is thin and cold and somehow dry. Almost as if everything had deserted the cells-- the darkness is _empty_. There are no eyes to raise the hairs on the prisoners’ necks.

There is only the feeling of hopelessness. 

And, of course, there is the presence of Death.

There’s a distinct difference in the air when Death stalks through the bars and slips between cells. 

It cannot be felt in a drop of temperature or in a change of pressure. It is within the physical body can Death be felt-- a man becomes aware of his heart, underneath his skin and pressing against bones that stretch his body. How slowly it beats and how loud it is within the thin air.

He can feel each vein, all at once, when his blood runs blue and cold. 

He looks up and cannot see Death, not immediately. It is only when he ponders what could have changed and what is to come when he can see clearly.

Nails pressing through a black glove rap against bars slowly.

_Clink._

_ Clink. _

_ Clink. _

_Clink_.

And footsteps, light and calm, travel from one end of the cell to the other.

Then a gin can be made out-- sharp and curled like a wolf’s. Followed by two vivid, bright eyes that twinkle maliciously.

As the story goes, Death is not biased. He is not malicious and he does not take sides. He is a savior here in these devoid rooms, something to pray for, someone to take comfort in. 

That’s what the prisoners whisper to each other on their way down. 

_ Pray for him, pray for him; _

_ He will love us, he will save us, _

_ He will bring us Home. _

It’s what they whisper before their throats dry out and their eyes roll back.

It’s what they whisper when they still retain any hope.

However, their stories are just as good as fourteen Hail Mary’s.

_ “What a place you have come to be in.” _

The man in the cell licks his lips and his heart beats violently against his rib-cage, trying desperately to escape. He feels, for the first time in months, hope. “Y-you’ve come,” He whispers, and his face splits into a smile that cracks his skin and hurts. 

All of the Hail Mary’s, he thinks, they’ve all been worth it.

Death says nothing. His smile simply widens.

“You… you--” The man’s heart slows and his breath is frigid against his teeth. “You’re here f-for me, right?”

He sees the silhouette of a man step close to the bars but it is not as glorious as the stories say. There is no halo, no brilliant light, no comforting hand.

The silhouette slips through the bars and they ripple like a mirage behind it. 

Through the dark the man sees the silhouette walk closer and closer and a skull, hollow and cracking and leaking something black and _rancid_ , grins and laughs.

The man gasps, the breath stinging the back of his throat, and drags his body backwards. His arms start to shake and the sudden movement grinds against his bones and stretches his rigid, withered muscles. The stasis he had slipped into during so many quiet days slips from his body like silk as his eyes grow wide in fear.

Still Death approaches.

“ _D-Devil!_ ” The man shouts hoarsely but it’s only a whisper in the damned cell.

“ _Close_.”

A hand reaches out and it’s not warm as it cups the man’s cheek. It’s solid and freezing and it scrapes him. He freezes, his breath caught in his throat.

Bones run from the man’s ear to his chin.

The man starts to whisper one more Hail Mary and does not make it past the second word before he is dead.

Death’s stare is bored as the man’s body collapses and barely makes a noise against the concrete floor. He dies with a look of pure fear etched into every line of his decrepit, crumbled face. 

His soul, as it floats from his body, does not crawl a foot away before Death reaches his-- now fleshed-- hand and catches it. He’s gentle with it, a juxtaposition with his act, as he cups it in his hands and turns it over. It’s grey and withered and tarnished and _ugly._

Death feels no satisfaction over getting rid of the soul from the mortal plane. It’s a mark on the world, it truly is-- the man had been in prison for a reason. But still Death finds no pride in his job.

He does not feel satisfaction, he does not feel pride, he does not feel happiness, he does not feel relief. He does not feel the things he hoped he would.

Because, in fact, Death does not feel much of anything at all.

 


End file.
